


keepsakes

by doctormissy



Series: the eyes emoji squad [5]
Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: Christmas, F/F, Feelings, Fluff, If I do say so myself, Living Together, Love, Married Life, Presents, Vignette, it's very soft, mentions of other legends, time!!!! wives!!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:09:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21918865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctormissy/pseuds/doctormissy
Summary: It’s Sara’s second Christmas with Ava.It’s her first as a married woman.
Relationships: Sara Lance/Ava Sharpe
Series: the eyes emoji squad [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1242824
Comments: 4
Kudos: 87
Collections: 9 Days Christmas Writing Challenge





	keepsakes

**Author's Note:**

> hello! I did say I'd write a little something at Christmas, didn't I? (in the comments, anyway...)
> 
> this is set within _sunshinegirl changed the group's name to the bikings_ , but it can be read without any knowledge of that! just know they got married on 1 december, right before crisis :) and for those of you who have read that—well, consider this a little present from me, and my thanks for supporting me on the journey that fic was!
> 
> merry christmas to those of you who celebrate, and enjoy <3

See this. A quiet winter night; fairy lights strung across the city, wound around windowsills and lampposts and small trees. Breathe in the aroma of sweet, scalding beverages and spicy gingerbread. See the two women. Their modern flat paid with government money and time travel. Love.

It’s Sara’s second Christmas with Ava.

It’s her first as a married woman.

She and her wife are splayed on the floor by the giant fir Nate has helped them carry inside. It stands in the living room, glorious in red and gold: the traditional colours of the traditional Christmas Ava has never had as a child. It smells like Siberian forests in 1263 AD; carries the holiday atmosphere right into their hearts.

It’s wrapped in blinking lights too. They cast shadows on their ivory faces and bring an air of magic to their lips, perpetually carved into a smile. Sara’s hideous jumper ( _come on, Aves, it’s not Christmas without the ugly sweaters_ ) matches the shade of the glittering ornaments and the year’s dose of magical adventures. It sports a dragon sewn in deep shades of green. Ava’s is golden with a silver effigy of the Waverider.

Like the lights. Like the rings.

Her feet, wrapped in the fuzziest socks, nudge Ava’s feet in matching ones, playful. She listens to the music playing in the background, soft and almost unnoticed. Just background noise. They’re not Christmas songs. Sara _detests_ Christmas songs. But she loves Christmas, always has done. It’s also her birthday (she’s turning 32).

Do you remember last year? A sports tournament at the Bureau, a family dinner, the very same flat. Ray’s tacky decorations covering the ship from floor to ceiling. Secret Santa, laughter, eggnog. Well, this year, they’re doing it differently.

They truly are home.

The ring, 24-days-old, if not 24 karat gold, glints in the dim light of the tiny LEDs when she brings up her mug of mulled wine (a European thing, she tried it in Vienna a month ago) and clangs it against Ava’s. Her smile stretches into impossible widths, travels to her eyes.

‘Cheers,’ they both say in unison.

Ava coughs when she takes the first sip. ‘Babe, what did you _put_ in this?’

‘Wine, cloves, cinnamon, some star anise, oranges, and maybe a _tiny bit_ of whisky?’ She raises her other hand, her thumb and forefinger about an inch apart to emphasise her point. She has to increase the gap, and hides her grin in the mug. ‘What, is the director of the Time Bureau too much of a wuss to handle it?’

Ava’s foot kicks Sara’s shin. Gently, not like when they fought each other on the Waverider that one time. It brings warmth into Sara’s chest (well, maybe that’s the wine too). ‘Never,’ Ava says in a breath. ‘I love it.’

Sara’s eyebrow goes up, a twisted, mischievous thing. ‘Merry Christmas then, Ava Sharpe-Lance,’ she says, her tongue still unfamiliar with the way the name rolls off it. Her heart makes itself known in her wool-clad chest. Ava is her wife. (Ava tolerates the _pun_.)

‘Merry Christmas, Sara Sharpe-Lance,’ Ava says back, softly, with all the sappy, sexy adoration. Her blonde hair shines with gold too, in the warm light. Forget the wine; Sara wants to drink _her_ up. ‘And happy birthday, you gorgeous woman.’

Yeah. Sara sets the mug down, safe where she won’t accidentally topple it over and spill its contents. Her hand curls around Ava’s neck. Her lips find hers, an instinct, a habit, an easy gesture. She feels Ava’s hand grab at her hair, pull it behind her ear. The kiss is messy. It tastes of wine and intoxicates them with feelings.

Ugh, when did she _get_ like that? The assassin side of her shudders.

She’s happier than she’s ever been.

Which is saying something, given that Crisis happened two weeks ago.

Ava breaks the kiss, gasping for breath. Sara misses those lips immediately. ‘Speaking of,’ her wife (she will never tire of saying that) says, ‘I know we unwrapped our presents in the morning, but there’s one more.’ She bites her lips. It’s adorable.

Can you hear Sara’s heartbeat?

‘Yeah?’ she asks, curiosity in her voice. There was a _pile_ , a _mountain_ under the Waverider’s slightly smaller and very much plastic tree before, all kitschy paper and different ways of inadequate wrapping skills. It’s the thing about having a huge (found) family and a good number of (rich) friends.

Ava’s elbow gives out and she lies down, reaching into the bowels of the coffee table. Out she goes holding a small box. A silky bow binds its two white compartments together. She places it into Sara’s hands with a _here_ and a tad—nervous? smile.

‘Aves, what is this?’ She looks her in the eye, sees the glint of the lights. When she gives the box a shake, it produces no sound. ‘It’s not Gary’s nipple or something, right?’

For a second there, a horrified look passes across Ava’s face. Then it fully evolves into a disgusted one. That kind of was the point. ‘Ew, god, no. Just open it.’

She does. The ribbon is soft and lands on the carpet.

And what is inside, then, you ask?

It’s a token. A memento. A tiny piece of jewellery from the first mission they went on together, so long ago and yet so recently ( _exactly_ two years ago, on Christmas), when they had to go and get that stupid Beebo from the Vikings. When they had to agree to _truce_ , to _cooperation_ , to _cohabitation_ in the same, stubborn line of work.

‘A brooch?’ Sara asks, picking it up with two fingers, playing ignorant. But of course she remembers. She had no idea Ava had kept it. (It’s not even a real, period item, no, it’s 100% Gideon-made.) She holds it against the pale light and studies the knots wound into the metal.

She doesn’t wear brooches, and she doubts they will return to _that_ particular era anytime soon.

‘Yeah, it’s… from our first mission together, when Nora—god, it’s weird to think that she was our enemy once, isn’t it?’ She chuckles. Nora is a book club member and Ray’s girlfriend and pregnant with his child, and it’s _ridiculous_ to think that she tried to _kill them_ two years ago. ‘Anyway. I wanted you to have this, Sara, as a reminder of what we’ve been through together. We were enemies when I wore that. Now we’re married.’

She doesn’t wear brooches, but she will treasure it for as long as she’s alive (for the third time).

‘A textbook example of _enemies to friends to lovers_ , eh?’ Ava gives her this look. Disbelieving. A chuckle bubbles deep inside Sara’s diaphragm and comes out untamed. ‘What, don’t tell me you didn’t catch the vocabulary after two years with those _nerds_.’

(They’re on the ship, watching stupid Christmas movies, Sara thinks. She would take this over that any day. She loves them and their hijinks, but she doesn’t want to hear a word from them until at least tomorrow.)

Ava shakes her head. ‘I’m not saying that.’

‘What, then?’

‘I love you.’

There’s silence. Well, not really. The soft melody of an Ed Sheeran song breaks it just so. But between two heartbeats, between the sound of the words and meaning and thought, there is silence. _Blissful_.

‘I love you too, Ava.’ She leans in for another kiss, a short and chaste press of lips. The tips of her fingers cup her chin. Light twinkles on Sara’s other rings (she only keeps two on her left hand). She glances at the small piece of jewellery again. ‘And I love this. I—thank you. This _definitely_ beats the pendant I gave you.’

(A golden compass. _I will always find you_.)

‘Nonsense,’ Ava says without missing a beat. She’s wearing it right now. Touches it absently. ‘This isn’t a competition, babe—mostly because if it were, you’d win.’

Ah, the birthday-on-Christmas thing. ‘If I had a nickel for every time someone said that to me—’

Ava shuts her up with a kiss. The wine grows cold, forgotten. Its scent envelopes the space around them. The fairy lights carry on in their symphony of blinks, _on-off, on-off, on-off_. And Sara laughs against her lips.

As it turns out, she doesn’t mind being a kept woman.

**Author's Note:**

> please leave a comment and kudos <3


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